


Threnody

by Bootsrcool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, John Halluncinates Sherlock, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach, bit o' angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 15:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14192154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bootsrcool/pseuds/Bootsrcool
Summary: John sees Sherlock everywhere after the Fall. Sitting in his chair, standing by the window, sitting across from him at restaurants, etc. When Sherlock comes back, John thinks it's just another illusion and doesn't really react.Not betaed. Not britpicked.(Anyone wanna offer to do either, would be great!! C:)





	Threnody

**Author's Note:**

> Its April! CampNaNoWriMo had kicked off and instead of working on that selected project, I have been working on a bunch of oneshots for Sherlock. KMN.
> 
> I don't own these characters fyi.
> 
> Enjoy!~

The first time it happens, John is sitting in his chair with his gun in his hand.

It's been three weeks since the funeral. Three weeks and two days since he last saw his friend alive. John had not left 221B since. Mrs. Hudson came up every now and then to drop off food he would barely touch, make tea he wouldn't drink. Sometimes she would sit with him, sometimes she wouldn't. John would later say that those three weeks went by in a blur of _Sherlock, no Sherlock, where is Sherlock?_

It was that third week that it had changed though. John was curled up in his chair in the sitting room, gun in hand, when he looked up to Sherlock’s chair and saw the man as John remembered him; hair neatly styled in that ‘just rolled out of bed’ way, wearing his silk shirt and suit. His piercing pale eyes peering over his fingers which were in their thinking position, staring at John.

John and Sherlock stared at each other for a long time. To John, it felt like only a few minutes, but when Mrs. Hudson came in with some biscuits, speaking to John about a new recipe Mrs. Turner had given her that she wanted John to try, it had gotten noticeably lighter in the flat and Mrs. Hudson always came up around eleven every morning. It had to have been at least a few hours since John looked up. He subtly clicked the safety on his gun and pushed it between the cushion and the armrest.

Sherlock didn't acknowledge the landlady as she walked around the flat, his eyes never leaving John. John cleared his throat roughly, eyes still on the man across from him. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes dear?” John could hear the hope in her voice. He hadn't spoke since his words at Sherlock's grave. _Don't… be… dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this_.

John paused and blinked once before nodding towards the window behind Sherlock. “D’you think we could get new curtains?”

Mrs. Hudson hummed and walked over to the window, giving the drapes a tug. “I suppose. They are looking quite dirty, maybe they just need a good cleaning.” She turned back to John. “Unless you want a new pair? Clear away bad memories?”

“Uh...maybe a good cleaning will do.” John replied slowly. Mrs. Hudson smiled kindly and nodded before moving back into the kitchen to pour tea.

She never made a comment about the dead man sitting across from John.

 

*****

 

When John stood up to eat at the kitchen table with the landlady, he turned around to see if Sherlock was still there. He wasn't.

 

*****

 

The second time was a few days after the first. John had finally gotten out of the flat and was walking around Regents park. Anyone who recognized him stayed away from him and those who didn't stayed away too. No one wanted to surround themselves around someone who was so obviously miserable. So John walked in peace. When he came across the bench he had met Mike Stamford on that January day, he stopped and sat down, closed his eyes and cleared his mind. When he opened them, Sherlock was sitting next to him.

“Are you real?” John asked quietly. Sherlock turned to look at him and smiled his genuine smile that John was privileged to see around the flat. John stared hard. Sherlock was wearing the same clothes he was a few days ago. His shoes were barely dirty. John could almost catch a whiff of his cologne. It could just be a phantom smell. John was trying so hard to believe that Sherlock is there that his brain is telling him he can smell Sherlock.

John took a deep breath and reached a hand out to lay on Sherlock's knee.

Nothing happened.

John stared at where his hand was resting on the wood of the bench and closed his mind down.

 

******

 

The third time happened when John was working at the clinic. He had just sent a woman who was in for a prescription refill and was turned to his computer to check on the next patient when he heard that deep baritone voice.

 “You know she fancies you.”

John closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. “Yeah.”

“Usually you flirt back, or even let them down gently if you're not interested, as is the case with patients.”

John hummed and went back to typing. When he turned around at the sound of the office door opening, he could swear he saw the ends of a dark wool belstaff flutter out before the next patient walked through.

 

*****

 

For the next two years, John was haunted at all hours of the day by the sound of Sherlock’s voice, his scent and his ghost. It wouldn't happen all the time, but at least once every two days he would catch a glimpse of the man who saved John Watson's life, whether he knew -had known- or not. At least once every twelve hours he would hear and smell him. When John went to sleep, he dreamed of him. Sometimes he dreamed of the Fall. He dreamed of the deceptively beautiful weather, clouds in the sky behind and above where Sherlock was standing on the ledge of the roof. He dreamed of the blood on Sherlock’s face and on the pavement, his best friend broken and lost with his eyes staring blankly ahead as John tried desperately to find a pulse. The pain of watching him fall like a rock in a pond, sending ripples around London with people clamoring to either say that they always believed in the detective. The intensity of the knife in Johns lungs and heart never lessening.

But he only dreamed of that sometimes. Other nights were better. John would dream about the good times. Running around London after criminals, saving each others arses, take away from that Thai place Sherlock favored, pranking Mycroft every now and then just to keep the nosy man on his toes. John would remember Sherlock how he should be remembered; as the most brilliant and best friend John had ever had.

John didn't move on in the way everyone hoped he would. He still lived in 221B. He never touched any of Sherlock's things besides the few possessions Mycroft took, which were mostly some notes on cases the the Government man passed over to the detective. He did become a bit more social after a few months, but he never dated anyone and he rarely went to social gatherings. Mycroft would visit for tea every few weeks. Greg would come over for a pint or three every second Thursday night and Mrs. Hudson spent five or six mornings a week with John for either a late breakfast or a late lunch.

John never did meet with Molly. Whenever they ran into each other at Tesco or a nearby coffee shop that John sometimes met Mike in, she would get giant watery eyes and walk in the opposite direction. John let her be.

He also never stepped anywhere near Bart's again.He would cringe whenever anyone brought the hospital up.

 

*****

 

One day, after a grueling shift at the surgery, John was walking back to Baker Street. He opted out taking the tube or a cab. The weather was terrible, pouring rain as if every tear that was ever shed in the world joined forces to batter London, faint rolls of thunder sounding under the noise of the rain hitting the streets. John always loved the rain though. Before going to basic training, John would run through the local park everyday. Rain or shine. Surprisingly, running in the rain was both better and more of a challenge what with the slick ground and rain blinding him. Since Sherlock had been ‘appearing’, John takes every moment to walk in a downpour to both drown out any negative thoughts and partly to relive those days before Afghanistan.

So when he left the surgery at nine thirty at night, John didn't even think about take cover other then to zip his jacket up and step onto the streets to walk home. He was walking through Regents park when Sherlock showed up.

Now there was something to be said about Johns imagination. Whatever the weather or season out whenever John saw Sherlock, the ghost would appear as if the conditions were affecting him. When it was cold, his cheeks, ears and nose would go pink. In the heat, he would sweat. In the rain…

He got wet.

Sherlock appeared in front of John a few yards away from the exit closest to Baker Street, stepping in front of John and stopping. Usually Sherlock would just follow him. He never stepped directly in front of him as if to stop him. John really didn't like to watch Sherlock's ghost disappear whenever he reached out to touch him, so John always kept at least a two feet distance whenever possible.

“John.” Sherlock said, his baritone voice barely heard over the rain, staring intently at Johns face. John smiled, glanced quickly around to make sure there was no one around before talking.

“Hey. I'm headed home now, so if you show up there then you can chat more.” John had come to the conclusion that the best way to handle Sherlock's ghost was to be blunt but kind and to treat it like a very temporary imaginary friend that comes and goes as he pleases.

Sherlock frowned but nodded and strode ahead in the direction of 221B. John sighed and took a few breaths before following. When they reached the flat, John unlocked the door while Sherlock waited next to him and they both walked up the stairs. John could hear Mrs. Hudson's telly lowly playing her soaps and quietly locked up. When he shut the door to the sitting room and turned around, John was surprised to see that Sherlock was still dripping water as he was now out of the rain, but he shrugged it off. Sherlock usually never followed him so clearly before. Usually he would appear in his chair like the first time John saw him, dry and warm looking. As if he had never left.

John sighed again and walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on before grabbing a towel from the loo and drying his hair. Sherlock watched John work on making a cuppa, a deep frown on his face. That was unusual too. Sherlock didn't usually frown. He didn't usually show many emotions besides the contentedness that he had shown those first few weeks after appearing.

Once John was settled in his chair and Sherlock was seated on the edge of his own, John cleared his throat. “Are you going make another comment on the nurse at the surgery? I already told you she was obviously trouble, even without you pointing it out.”

 “....” Sherlock's eyes flew over John. ‘Deducing,’ he thought with some amusement. “When did I say that?”

John looked at him funny. “Last week ago of course and a few weeks before then. You first noted it to me when she started working there a couple months ago.” John pressed his back against the chair. “You aren’t usually this daft.”

“Usually?” Sherlock picked up instantly. He was getting a twisted feeling in his stomach.

So was John. “Yes…?”

Sherlock leaned as close to John as he could get without leaving the chair. “When was the last time you saw me?”

“I saw you two days ago.” John said with a frown, closing his eyes. Sherlock opened his mouth to comment but John continued. “I heard you talking early this morning when I was getting ready for work and I caught a whiff of your cologne then too. You don't usually ask these kinds of questions.”

“What questions do I ask?”

“‘What were you thinking taking the tube’, ‘Did you see how that woman's wedding ring was so dull? I’d say 15+ years of an unhappy marriage.’, ‘John, how did you miss that the barista was flirting with you? He was practically drooling over your caffeine.’”

Sherlock leaned across the distance and reached out his arm to touch John's knee. John quickly tucked his legs underneath himself and Sherlock left his hand hanging between them for a moment before pulling back.

They stared at each other for a few minutes before John shook his head vigorously, standing up. “Right. Gotta say this is the first time that has ever happened.” He walked around the chair and drained the last of his tea before putting the cup in the sink to clean later. He filled a glass with water before looking back into the sitting room. Sherlock was still there, he was still wet from the rain. “Right.” He repeated. “G’night then.”

“John.”

John shook his head again and made his way to the stairs. The sound of Sherlock;s chair being pushed across the floor made him freeze for a moment before closing his eyes tight and reaching out to pull the door open but something stopped him. It felt like his whole body turned to lead within a second. He even looked down to make sure that he didn't step in cement or super glue, but he was still wearing his socks and trousers.

Then John felt it. Fingers around his wrist, stopping him from going anywhere.

“Wha-?”

John stopped talking as the fingers around his wrist tugged lightly, turning him around. John quickly closed his eyes before seeing someone who wasn't there. The only sound John could hear was two sets of breathes and blood pounding in his ears as a smell a bit different then the cologne he has been smelling assaulted his nose.

Then someone sighed and John heard someone say his name before long arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him into a warm, wet body that was too thin and bony and then John pressed as hard as he could into that body, trying to bury himself under the skin. He could curl up inside and live forever and be content and-

John cried. He sobbed. He wailed into a bony shoulder and dig his fingers into a back that he could feel every vertebra. He bit down on the shirt that bunched besides his mouth and let all the pain he was feeling out, letting the body absorb it all and then sending it back to him, but better, like breathing in oxygen and letting out CO2 but reversed.

After days, weeks, seasons have passed, John closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wet patch he made and let out a long breath, steadying himself. Now all he could hear was a heartbeat a few inches away.

“Please tell me this is real.” John whispered. The body shifted and John clenched tighter to it before releasing it and looking up into pale eyes that had hints of blues and greys and greens in them. This close, John could see a hint of brown in them as well. Sherlock leaned down and pressed his forehead against Johns and smiled very gently. “This is real. You are here. I am here. We are home.” John nodded his head slightly, his lips brushed just on the surface of Sherlock's.

“Home.”

“We’re home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Threnody- A lament of mourning.
> 
>  
> 
> Come bother me at Bootsrcool.tumblr.com! I'm lonely!!!!!!!


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